No Rest for the Wicked
by commander-shakarian
Summary: Samson is the Commander of the Inquisition's forces. The new title is the first step to his redemption with the Chantry. However, his path to redemption is fraught with pitfalls, one of them being the famed Herald of Andraste.
1. The Prisoner

He hadn't expected Cassandra to bring the lone survivor of the Conclave explosion back to the scene of the crime. Everyone else was dead, turned into the charred remains of what had once been hundreds of templars, mages, and Chantry sisters. Divine Justinia had perished with those in the temple leaving the Chantry without a leader. Seeker Cassandra and Spymaster Leliana were scrambling to pull together the Inquisition of old, one that would help restore order to Thedas. Samson hadn't voiced his own worries concerning the Inquisition, but he knew that others would for him. Most notably, Chancellor Roderick who seemed intent on making everything difficult for the Seeker.

"Samson?" Cassandra's voice called out, catching him off guard.

The demon attacked and the former templar barely ducked the well aimed swipe. He turned to plunge his greatsword into its back when a burst of lightning blinded him. He was too late to cover his eyes. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils and choking, Samson turned his head from the scent. The sounds of battle had ended, but his eyes still burned. Grumbling, the warrior pulled off a gauntlet and rubbed the spots from his eyes. When he opened them again, he was staring at the disgruntled expression on Cassandra's face.

"May I help you?" He asked, putting on his most charming smile, but knowing it wouldn't work on Pentaghast. She was far too high-ranking for the likes of him.

With a sigh, Cassandra waved towards the bodies on the ground around them. "Do you know how many we've lost?"

Samson followed her hand and saw it was more than he had hoped. The smile fell from his face. "Maker's breath, how are we supposed to continue like this? We're fighting demons, Cassandra. Not a war."

"This may very well turn into a war." The Seeker responded, looking weary. It had been a long time since either of them had slept well and he wanted to quip about how they could spend it _together_, but he held his tongue. _Now_ was clearly not the time. "If the breach isn't closed, the amount of demons we'll have to fight will be astronomical."

"How do you propose we do that? I doubt the templars will want anything to do with us because of my history running mages out of Kirkwall."

"The mages then." Cassandra replied without skipping a beat. "Honestly, it doesn't matter which side helps, as long as one of them does."

"I might be able to speak to Fiona. She is leading the rebel mages in Redcliffe." Samson rubbed his forehead, not too keen on the idea of seeking help anywhere outside of the Inquisition, but knowing that he wasn't running the show this time. Cassandra was a capable woman. He just had a hard time trusting other people after the templars had dumped him on the street.

"We'll worry about that when we can catch our breath. I need to introduce you to someone." Cassandra turned away from him and walked towards a small group of people that had gathered a few feet away.

Samson cocked his head slightly and watched as she walked. There were many things he liked about the Seeker, but the fact that she had a nice ass was his favorite. He moved after her and wasn't surprised to see Solas, the elven apostate that he had found a few weeks back, was still hanging around. Then there was Varric Tethras. The dwarf was always one for a story and he seemed to have landed in the midst of the biggest one yet.

Then there was the fourth member of their little party. He was an elf that Samson had never seen before, although his coloring reminded him of that broody elf that Hawke used to hang around with back in Kirkwall. This one, however, didn't look at all broody, but instead, seemed genuinely interested in what was happening.

"Commander, this is the prisoner." Cassandra's face was stoic, as was usual with the beautiful warrior, but her face couldn't hide her uncertainty at having another apostate in her presence. Samson liked to see the woman rattled. She was still only human after all. "He can close the rifts."

This was a surprise. Certainly the last thing the former templar had expected. "Close the rifts? How?"

Cassandra lifted the prisoner's hand, showing a deep, red scar branding his palm.

"A scar?" Samson asked, a laugh on his lips. "How is a scar going to save Thedas?"

Cassandra frowned deeply, but it wasn't she who responded. The elf stepped forward, his waist length snowy hair in a braid hung over his shoulder. The templar met a pair of determined emerald green eyes.

"The scar you speak of, _ser_, has the magic of the breach. It can close the rifts, I assure you."

Samson laughed, unable to help his reaction. "Ser? Did you hear that Cassandra? He called me 'ser'."

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise.

"My name is Samson, Commander of the Inquisition's armies. I'm as far from _ser_ as any man could possibly get." The templar watched as the elf blushed, his bronze skin showing red a lot better than he'd expected. He took the brief moment to inspect the prisoner's face. White tattoos showed a Dalish heritage, something that interested Samson. Why was a Dalish mage at the Conclave? With a smirk in the flushed elf's direction, Samson asked, "What's your name?"

"Desya Lavellan, first to Clan Lavellan's Keeper, Deshanna."

"Keeper?"

Solas stepped forward, using his staff as a cane. It made him look even more like an old man than the bald head did. "She is the clan's leader. A mage who looks after the elves of Clan Lavellan. Desya is her apprentice."

Desya flashed a grateful smile to Solas, his ears still pink from his earlier embarrassment.

Cassandra sighed loudly before turning to the others. "We do not have time to discuss this. Come. We must finish closing the rift here."

She lead the way, not even sparing a glance in Samson's direction. Varric, with his trusty crossbow on his back, followed her, a word not spoken from his otherwise chatty lips. Solas was next, clearly needing distance from the former templar.

Desya began to follow then paused. He glanced at Samson curiously. "Next time I cast a spell, close your eyes."

As the elf hurried after his companions, Samson let out a laugh.


	2. A Little Guidance

Samson kicked off his boots before making his way to the enormous wooden desk that took up most of his room. Pulling open the top drawer, he gazed in at the little vials of blue liquid that sat there. With a sigh, he reached in and retrieved one. The tremors were getting worse. It was harder to go any length of time without taking a drink from one of the vials. He hated being so dependent on lyrium, his addiction finally controlling him.

The Chantry had introduced the stuff to him when he was only a templar recruit. Once he had been sworn in, he began taking it. When Knight Commander Meredith had removed his status among the templars and left him on the dirty streets of Kirkwall, his dependance had already been solidified. He did anything he could to get some of the stuff. Ten years later, it was still the only thing he lived for.

Sitting in the stiff-backed chair in front of the desk, he uncorked the vial and watched the contents. At the sight of the shimmering, azure potion, he felt his heart pick up speed. His body was prepared to accept the poison. The glass was cold in his hand, the lyrium humming, calling to him. Closing his eyes, Samson tried to resist the call, tried to put the container down, but in the end, all he managed to do was crush it in his grip.

Shards of glass broke the skin, sending drops of blood to the floor with the wasted lyrium. He sat in silence, allowing the stinging pain of his hand to bring him back to reality. When he was able to breath without needing a dose of the potion, he glanced at his injury. Pieces of the glass vial were embedded in his hand. The blood was already beginning to dry on his skin.

"That looks like it hurts."

Despite the pain he was in, Samson couldn't help but to smile. "How long have you been standing there?"

A movement in the shadows caught his gaze and he glanced up as a small woman appeared before him. Her dark skin reflected the light of the candle on the desk, her purple-blue eyes watching him closely. She had been the first person to nickname him "the Wolf" after she'd seen him fight. Although they acted like they hated one another in the presence of other people, Samson knew she was one of the only people he could label _friend_ in this place. "It does, but not much."

Small hands took his much larger ones between them. She inspected the injury herself, her choppy ebony hair falling into her face, before making a tiny noise in her throat. "It doesn't look bad. Quit being such a baby."

He chuckled. "Thanks for the support, _Arrow_."

The dwarven woman grinned at her own nickname. "You didn't expect me to feel sorry for you, did you?"

Samson shook his head before taking his hand back. He began to pull the pieces out one by one while his intruder made herself comfortable in a chair beside him. When he was finished, he wrapped a bandage around the wound. "What are you doing here, Ryra?"

Vanryra Brosca didn't speak, but instead, looked at his accommodations. "The room is a little small for you, don't you think? I can see if Leliana can find you something-"

Samson groaned, the former Warden Commander of Ferelden's voice fading at the sound. "_What_ are you doing here?"

"Leliana wanted me to help you."

"With what?"

Vanryra turned her strange eyes on him again, this time with anger in them. "You are still taking lyrium. What happened to quitting? What happened to the man who was determined to get well? To the man who wanted to be a big damned hero?"

Samson covered his face with his uninjured hand. He didn't want to have this conversation with the savior of Ferelden. "I'm not that man, Brosca. I don't know what to tell you. If I had still been a templar, if Meredith had let me stay, I would probably be one of those templars out there killing rebel mages."

Vanryra snorted. "I doubt that. In Kirkwall, even when you were begging for money to get a dose of lyrium, you helped people, Samson."

"_I'm not that person_." He growled at her, getting angry as well. He fucking hated it when people told him who he was. As if he didn't know himself better than they did.

Vanryra slid off of her seat. There was fire in her gaze. "Don't tell me you regret taking the Divine's offer of leading the Inquisition's armies. She did it because I asked her to. She did it because _I_ believed in _you_."

"You should have believed in someone else. Like Cullen. He could have done a better job and we both know it."

The grey warden rolled her eyes. "Cullen allowed Meredith to abuse mages, Samson. He, himself, can't be trusted around them. After what happened in Kinloch Hold, he shouldn't have even been allowed a position of power."

Samson was silent. The words Vanryra spoke were true. So much had happened in Kirkwall that he regretted, but his biggest one was not being able to save more people when he had the chance. His only concern was getting back to being a templar. To have that supply of lyrium in his reach again. He thought of Garrett Hawke's sister, Bethany, who had been trapped in the Circle at the time. Of Anders, the mage who sparked the mage-templar war. Fiona, the former Grand Enchanter, who was leading the rebel mages.

Then there was the elven prisoner whom people were calling the Herald of Andraste. Could he allow all of these people to be killed? Could he allow them to be locked up because they were given magic by the Maker? He had always thought the Chantry was too harsh on the mages, but now he saw the harm they caused firsthand. He could _do_ something to change that.

Vanryra smiled as the anger left his face. "See? Was that so hard?"

"You are an enormous pain in my arse."

The rogue warden patted him on the knee. "You're welcome." Her eyes lit up as a thought crossed her mind. "Now- if my work is done, I'm going to find Leliana. We have some… _catching up_... to do."

The Hero of Ferelden disappeared in a puff of smoke, most likely already on her way to her girlfriend's tent. With a sigh, Samson leaned back in his chair and glanced at his bandaged hand. Brosca was a lot of things, but she wasn't a fool. If she believed he could curb his addiction, he was going to damn well try.


	3. The Herald

"Where have you been?" Cassandra Pentaghast snapped at Samson as he walked out of his office.

Raising an eyebrow, he returned his usual sarcastic answer. "Did you miss me already, Seeker?"

"Don't be glib with me, Commander." Cassandra said, barely concealed anger on her face. "We've been waiting for you."

"We?"

The pair walked towards the area that Cassandra had designated as the training grounds. Samson could hear the clashing of his soldiers' swords and the scent of lyrium the templars that had joined the cause with him. One of those that had joined up was Cullen Rutherford, the former Knight Captain of Kirkwall.

"Rutherford!" Samson barked out at the younger man. "How's the fighting?"

"It could be better, if I'm honest." Cullen responded, his blond hair sticking to his forehead. The men and women were working hard on their skills, sweat pouring down the brow of each one.

"Push them until they can't be pushed anymore." He demanded, a growl in his throat. "I want these assholes ready to fight."

Samson didn't wait for a response from his second and continued to follow Cassandra.

"You're too hard on them." She said, not bothering to meet his gaze. "If they are too tired to fight, they'll all die."

"Then get me better fighters." The response was almost immediate.

The Seeker made a noise low in her throat and it made Samson grin. He loved irritating the Nevarran. She had fire in her blood and she needed to show it more often. If Ryra thought him a wolf, he had to admit he saw a dragon in Cassandra.

Ambassador Montilyet and Leliana were waiting for them at the treeline. He wasn't sure what the purpose of such a secret meeting spot, but he kept his mouth shut. On the other hand, he smirked at the sight of the redhead. The little dwarf woman wasn't with her.

"Leliana? What a pleasant surprise. I figured you'd be knocking boots with that wily warden of yours."

The spymaster laughed at the mention of her girlfriend. "Who's to say we didn't?"

Samson winked at her as another person joined the retinue. He watched as the small elven man he had met the day before warily approached. He seemed to be lost, as if he didn't truly know what to expect from the meeting. His eyes found Samson's and he stared, not a word on his tongue.

"What's wrong, kid?" Samson asked, his voice coming out more like a growl. "Wolf got your tongue?"

Desya's eyes widened.

"Samson, leave him be." Josephine scolded him, acting like the mother hen. He supposed that out of their entire group, she would be the best fit for it.

"Yes, please do stop scaring our people." Cassandra muttered, rubbing the spot between her eyes. "It's getting rather wearying."

"Maybe we need people who don't scare easily." Samson offered, his eyes still on the elf. "Just a suggestion."

Cassandra opened her mouth to argue when Leliana cut in. "If we may get back to the matter at hand, we need to figure out how we are going to respond to the Chantry's allegations."

"What are those old maids squawking about now?"

Cassandra sighed. Leliana's mouth twitched as if she was fighting a smile. "The people are calling our young friend here the 'Herald of Andraste.' Which, according to the Chantry, is blasphemous."

"I am Dalish. I do not believe in your Maker or Andraste." The elf glanced towards his hands as he spoke, as if he feared seeing their expressions. "I don't think your Chantry would care for an elf representing their goddess."

"It does not matter what the Chantry believes or wants, Desya." Cassandra said, a frown on her face. "What matters is that we find a way to spread our influence so that when we approach them, they cannot turn us away."

"How do you intend us to do that?" Samson asked, glancing between all three women in his council. "I'm shit with the nobles."

"I believe that is my expertise." Josephine said with a smile.

"Why don't we ask the Herald?" Leliana suggested, her blue eyes turned to Desya. "What do you suggest we do? _You_ are the one that the Chantry will need to speak to when the time comes."

"W-Why is that?" Desya asked, nervously. His green eyes were the size of saucers in his small face.

Samson covered his face with his hands. "Why are we letting this kid make decisions? He clearly doesn't know anything."

Before anyone could yell at him, Samson felt his knees buckle. Falling to the ground, he managed to get his hands up in time to catch himself.

"What the fuck?" He spat out, his gaze wildly searching his surroundings.

Leliana's mouth was covered as she laughed. Josephine appeared shocked at the display. Cassandra was wearing the biggest smirk he'd ever seen on the Seeker. The elf was staring again, those pretty eyes full of confusion and perhaps a little worry.

Attempting to get back to his feet, Samson stopped when a knife appeared at his throat.

"You _ever_ talk to the boy like that again," Vanryra hissed at him, her tiny body appearing out of thin air. "I will cut your throat before you even knew what was happening."

Samson swallowed, the fear he felt was real. He had seen the Hero of Ferelden like this before, with Cullen when he'd first joined the Inquisition, and he never thought he'd be at the other end of her dagger. He knew that he never wanted to be there again. "Yes, ma'am."

Ryra turned away from him and went to Leliana's side. No one said anything else, but he knew they were all secretly happy he'd been put in his place.


	4. Not Going It Alone

Samson paced back and forth in front of the Herald's temporary home. The elf was leaving to meet Mother Giselle, a woman whom the Commander knew was one of the best options for the Inquisition in its current state. She would give them legitimacy, something they desperately needed. The Inquisition was small yet powerful and the Chantry was already threatened by it. The image of the Chantry sisters chasing their tails brought a grin to Samson's face. Yes, that was something that benefited everyone, but most of all, the Commander. It meant he was doing his job.

The sound of the door opening caught his attention and Samson halted his steps. He turned his dark gaze to the Herald, who was standing in the doorway with wide eyes. The former templar admired the elf silently. He was rather pretty, even for an elf. His skin was bronze, from sun or nature, Samson couldn't say, but it suited him. His eyes were Samson's favorite color, green, but these were even more beautiful. They shone brightly in his dark face, as if they were beacons of light.

The elf's waist length hair was a shock of white, braided then hung over his shoulder. A light breeze blew as they stood there, loosening pieces of the hair from its design. It made the Herald look ethereal, as if he was almost of another world.

Samson felt a tightening in his pants. Clearing his throat, Samson attempted to both take any focus away from his arousal and to distract himself. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and met the gaze of the frightened elf.

"I, err, came to apologize." Samson felt like a fool. He was no templar recruit with a crush on the local barmaid. He was the commander of an army. He'd waged wars against templars and mages alike. He'd bedded prettier elves than this one-

The thought of bedding the elf made him growl.

The Herald looked as if he was prepared to run.

"Don't be frightened, boy. I'm not going to bite." A devilish smirk crossed his face at the image of that white hair running between his fingers. Yes, he'd be nice. That was for damn sure. "Well, not _much_."

"What are you really here for?" The elf snapped, clearly having been toyed with enough. He had some backbone after all.

The realization didn't help the feeling in Samson's trousers, however.

Samson ran a hand over the top of his head and glanced away from the man in front of him. "I actually wanted to apologize. I was a bit of an ass before."

"I hadn't noticed." Lavellan snapped, blushing yet still clearly upset.

Samson couldn't keep from smiling. He liked that the elf was giving him lip. "Herald-"

"My name is Desya Lavellan. I would prefer if you called me by it." Lavellan wouldn't look at him as he spoke, clearly nervous to be talking with a human as dominating as Samson, so the Commander decided to be gentler with him.

Samson nodded. "If that is what you wish."

Desya frowned, the corners of his mouth twitching as he gazed towards the ground. Samson watched as the young man reached up and tugged on the end of his braid. "I- accept your apology, Commander."

It was whispered, but Samson had no trouble hearing it. A wolfish grin lifted his lips. "Seeking out Mother Giselle is wise. She will be helpful to you in things involving the Chantry."

Desya's large eyes finally glanced at Samson. "She won't mind helping a mage?"

Samson chuckled, the idea of Mother Giselle turning anyone away as comical. As if the Mother would turn away a person in need. As if Samson wouldn't help a mage in trouble. After all, his past in Kirkwall practically revolved around the mages…

The commander shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. "You'll see, Lavellan."

Samson had decided to accompany Lavellan and his companions to meet Mother Giselle, knowing that a larger group of fighters would be necessary with the mage-templar war waging around them. The last thing Thedas needed was to lose their savior to this ridiculous war. He wasn't going to let the elf do this alone.

Samson carried his sword in hand, ready to use it at the slightest provocation. Desya was leading the group, the elf's white braid swaying with his gait. The warrior couldn't help but focus his gaze on the Herald's hips. They swung almost seductively, in the easy way they did when elves walked. His thighs were smooth and muscular. Samson could tell even through the cloth pants Lavellan wore.

Varric chuckled from beside Samson, catching the look on the commander's face.

Samson turned a raised eyebrow on the dwarf. "Something funny?"

"Nothing at all, Commander." Varric muttered, a smile on his lips. "Enjoying your view?"

Samson's eyes slanted at the chortling dwarf, not liking the amusement he found in the situation. He was going to give a retort when Cassandra called out, taking her sword and shield out quickly.

"Red templars!" She shouted, rushing forward without another word in her companions' directions. She bashed her shield into the closest warrior, sending the templar flying to the ground.

Varric prepared his crossbow, lovingly named 'Bianca', for the fight. Samson followed Cassandra's lead, his only thoughts on stopping the threat. Solas threw up a barrier around the warriors as they fought side by side, taking on any who dared approach.

Lifting his shield to protect himself from attack, Samson slashed out towards his first opponent with his longsword. The man was cut down quickly. Using the momentum from the swing, Samson stepped over the fallen soldier and another met his blade. Blood spattered into the air, covering his armor in the thick liquid. He was grateful for the silverite chestplate. Even though Samson loved the heat of battle, the singing of blades meeting blades, the smell of blood upon the air, he stilled preferred to have his armor unmarred by bloodstains. Armor was not cheap.

He cut down his third enemy, Cassandra at his back when the tide of the battle changed.

"The Herald!" He heard Varric shout from somewhere behind.

Samson's heart nearly stopped in his chest. Whirling around, the commander eyes searched the battlefield for Desya's white hair. When he located the elf, he was disturbed to see that the mage was failing fast. Samson saw the templar who was performing a holy smite on the Herald, and enraged, sprinted at the man without a moment's hesitation. It wasn't long before his shield smashed into the templar's chest, interrupting the smite. His enemy staggered back, thrown off balance from the hit, giving Samson a chance to check on Desya's situation. The elf was glowing with the blue of a barrier, expertly put in place by the apostate. Relieved, Samson turned back to his opponent.

The templar stared back at him with red eyes. He had heard much about red lyrium, had even seen what had happened to Knight Commander Meredith in Kirkwall, but to see a person consumed by the mineral, was a shock. Grateful that he wasn't the one in such a state, Samson buried his sword in the man's side, thus ending his miserable existence.

With the field clear of rogue templars, Samson hurried to Desya's side. The elf was flushed, his breathing heavy from the amount of energy he had expended with fighting. The warrior gripped Desya's chin in his hand and brought the elf's face up so that he could search for pain in his green eyes. All he saw was confusion.

"You alright, boy?" Samson growled, feeling oddly protective of the mage.

"I… I'm fine. Thank you." Desya's flush deepened as Samson studied him.

Satisfied that there was no visual damage, Samson released his hold on the elf. Grunting, he turned and walked in the direction of the small refugee camp where Mother Giselle was waiting. The rest of his companions followed a moment later. Samson, for all he could ignore it, felt Cassandra's gaze on his back the entire walk.


	5. A Wicked Game

Samson could hear the disgusted noises Cassandra made through the closed door. The Seeker had been pacing outside of his room for the last five minutes, but had yet to make an appearance within. He wished she'd hurry up and yell at him for whatever it was he'd done. He had other shit to attend to.

Samson was grumbling by the time Cassandra knocked. He nearly ripped the door off of its hinges as he pulled it open. "_What is it?_"

The growl didn't take the Seeker by surprise. Expressionless, she stepped inside the commander's quarters. "We must talk."

"About?" He questioned, slamming the door shut behind her.

"The Herald." Cassandra said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And your fascination with him."

Samson felt his temper flare. "I do not have a damned fascination with the bloody elf."

He noticed Cassandra's lips twitch as if she was fighting off a smile. "Of course you don't. I wanted to make it clear, however, that any affections towards Lavellan are off limits."

Samson had never liked being told what he could or couldn't do. "Off limits, eh? Andraste's tits, Pentaghast. It's like you're _trying_ to tempt me."

Cassandra frowned as if the thought had never crossed her mind in the first place. "This is not a challenge, Samson. The Herald is young. He is uncertain of who he is and the Inquisition needs him to close the breach. We cannot afford any distractions, on his part or ours. Is that clear?"

Samson nodded, not sure what he was really agreeing to. He wasn't one to sit idly by while something he wanted was right in front of him. He was like his nickname, a wolf, taking what he needed to survive.

Deciding he needed to some fresh air, the old templar left the Chantry and made his way to where his army had set up temporary training. Maybe a sparring match would help him to control his thoughts. Or at least help him get rid of some of his pent up energy.

"Hey, Rutherford!" Samson called out towards his lieutenant, pulling his shirt over his head before depositing it to the dusty ground. "Let's go."

Cullen raised an eyebrow before approaching his commanding officer. "Now, Samson? Are you sure that's wise?"

Samson grunted and cracked his knuckles. "We need to be prepared for anything, Rutherford. Now hurry up."

Cullen sighed before removing his own shirt. "I don't plan on wrestling anyone."

Samson smirked, intending to make the young templar regret his words. Gripping Cullen's shoulders, the commander prepared to take his subordinate to the ground. It wasn't long before the two men, sweat dripping from their brows, had gathered a crowd. Wrapping his large arms around Cullen's waist, Samson began to mentally calculate how much strength he'd have to expend to take the warrior down when he heard giggling.

His attention turned outwards to the group surrounding him and Cullen. He noticed the dazzling white smile of Vanryra Brosca, the mischievous dwarf standing between her girlfriend and the Herald. The elf was staring at the display, eyes wide.

Samson knew he shouldn't care, but the fact that the emerald eyes of the mage was staring at his hair covered chest made him grin. With a final grunt, Samson tackled Cullen to the ground. Applause erupted around him as he stood and faced his audience. He met the Herald's gaze before winking. Cassandra had warned him not to pursue the elf, but as the commander stood there, he realized it would be a fun game to do it anyway.


End file.
